Fic: Doomed To Repeat (1/1)
Title: Doomed To Repeat
Rating: PG-13
Character: Christopher Johnson
Word Count: 1,266
Summary: It’s ironic that they call him Christopher. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Amnesia. Spoilers for District 9.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Because I rather loved Christopher. And I couldn’t get this strange little scenario out of my head. It would also be best if you were to simply imagine that this does not exist.
Doomed To Repeat
They land, and it’s a long time before he remembers; too long before he can orient himself and recall the shapes of continents, the names of directions, the compass rose. He wonders idly how much longer it would have taken for the knowledge to escape him entirely, for there to have been nothing left to recall.
They call him Christopher, and given their expressions it seems more of a coincidence than anything else, something born of their own cleverness versus his own muted sense of identity. The truth is, he doesn’t know who he is, what he is - but he knows enough to recognize that a name doesn’t define a thing. A name can’t make a man of a monster.
And honestly, he’s belongs more to the body he inhabits now than he ever did the one that mirrored these fragile, fleshy shells.
The latent human in him, though - that human finds it ironic that Christopher was, indeed, his given name, way back when.
________________________________________
When he sees the way the soft peach of the Human’s skin disappears into the slick sheen of those familiar claw-like digits, Christopher is lost. He can no more help this poor soul than he can abandon him, and it’s a paradox that eats him from within, makes it difficult to stomach the fatty cuts of raw meat he barters for, makes the sour scent of degradation boil hot in his gut. He presses long fingers against his son’s shoulder and indulges the story about the moon that boy was born beneath, so long ago now, so many, many breaths apart from the present; he loses himself for a moment, his eyes closed against the single thought that whirls in his mind, never-ceasing, never-dying - infinite and always and immortal:
It wasn’t supposed to happen again.
When he does manage to tune out the drone of that one terrible truth, it’s the sickening affirmation that this, all of this, is his own doing which replaces the buzzing trill, the knowledge of it thick like sludge, like the precious drops of life he’s managed to force, distilled and desperate from those broken bits of tech scavenged from the trash heaps - their mountains and valleys, here; dark like blood on his hands. This is his fault.
Mindlessly answering that yes, his son’s home planet is farther from its sun than they are here on Earth, he swallows hard; he isn’t sure which thought is worse.
________________________________________
Watching the man called Wikus is painful, he won’t deny it, and he knows that no matter what cruelties the Human casts his way, no matter what anger and aggression he will suffer at those hands, Christopher will not turn away. He remembers all too well what his own fingers - short and stubby, knuckled but nailless - did to the female who’d taken him in after his exposure, who’d pleaded with her caste to take him in, to bring him back to the homeworld and help him if they could; assimilate him if they could not. He’d thrashed and screamed as long as his human vocal chords had remained, had drawn blood from her more times than he cares now to recall, and it was only after his eyes had turned, his face was gone; it was only when the very last patch of human skin disappeared, when his heart changed and his lungs shifted and everything he knew was gone that he gave up, and her wounds were finally given the chance to heal.
Even in his darkest moments, his most violent rage, she never left him. She never gave up on him. He never learned her name, he reflects, but in the end it doesn’t matter, never mattered; because she’d loved him. She’d helped him through all of the trials, the tests that the experts subjected him to, assuring him anew each and every time that it wouldn’t come to naught, all this effort; that one day he would see his own human face in the mirror, his own cheeks, his own lips, the sparkling blue of his eyes. She’d slept with him when they both lost hope, when she had no more assurance to give, no more words of comfort, only her love, her passion. She’d laid his eggs. She’d died in the epidemic that had killed all but one of their progeny. She’d broken his heart without ever meaning to. She’d made the decision easy when they tell him they’ve found a way to reverse the process of conversion, that they can fix him.
Their offspring would never remember its mother. Christopher; he’s all their child has left.
It’s pity that drives the proposition - he knew that then, and he knows it now - but he’s offered his mate’s place on an exploratory mission aboard the same vessel that brought him to their world, his world, in the first place - the same vessel that landed in the secluded midwest and dropped a fuel canister that changed his life. And so he does what anyone would do - he gathers himself, his newborn son, and the best of his memories of her, and accepts.
He doesn’t even know the planet’s name - no one’s ever seen fit to tell him, and he’s never bothered to ask, or to look - but somehow, watching it’s green-gold glow disappear from the bulkheads, the tiny body of his little boy slung soft in the crook of his arm, it feels more like leaving home than anything he’s ever known.
The weight of the baby in his arms is awkward, this body unsuited for the angle, but some things are innate, unchangeable. Some things just are.
________________________________________
It’s seeing the body, his friend sliced open, a slab of meat dripping, empty, hollow on that table at the very center of everything he hates, everything he used to be; it’s the echo of it, the afterimage burned behind his eyes that makes everything perfectly clear.
A name cannot, can never make a man of a monster. These people, this planet - they prove that more than anything.
Christopher doesn’t belong here anymore.
________________________________________
When he gives Wikus three years, it’s an accurate estimate. In point of fact, it’s an optimistic one - they’d been traveling for seven years before they’d landed on Earth, and while they’d taken their time, explored a few smaller systems here and there, it had been a fairly direct route, all the same.
But he remembers what it feels like to lose all hope, and three years, however long they may be, are enough to keep a glimmer of it alive in the man; and a glimmer, well, that’s all anyone needs.
Three years. Christopher breathes slow, deep against the old Earth air swirling in the ship, his healing wounds stretching painfully as he takes it in. Three years.
It’s short enough to keep him looking to the sky for the shadow of return, for salvation to drop from the clouds and return his life to him, to push back the clock. It’s long enough, though, that Christopher knows that while those yellow eyes might skim the horizon at the end of each day, when those three years are up? It won’t matter if Christopher ever returns or not.
Because three years is long enough to understand that no one belongs to the human race forever. Long enough to know that no one should ever want to.
Wikus van de Merwe will be no different.
Rating: PG-13
Character: Christopher Johnson
Word Count: 1,266
Summary: It’s ironic that they call him Christopher. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Amnesia. Spoilers for District 9.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Because I rather loved Christopher. And I couldn’t get this strange little scenario out of my head. It would also be best if you were to simply imagine that this does not exist.
Doomed To Repeat
They land, and it’s a long time before he remembers; too long before he can orient himself and recall the shapes of continents, the names of directions, the compass rose. He wonders idly how much longer it would have taken for the knowledge to escape him entirely, for there to have been nothing left to recall.
They call him Christopher, and given their expressions it seems more of a coincidence than anything else, something born of their own cleverness versus his own muted sense of identity. The truth is, he doesn’t know who he is, what he is - but he knows enough to recognize that a name doesn’t define a thing. A name can’t make a man of a monster.
And honestly, he’s belongs more to the body he inhabits now than he ever did the one that mirrored these fragile, fleshy shells.
The latent human in him, though - that human finds it ironic that Christopher was, indeed, his given name, way back when.
________________________________________
When he sees the way the soft peach of the Human’s skin disappears into the slick sheen of those familiar claw-like digits, Christopher is lost. He can no more help this poor soul than he can abandon him, and it’s a paradox that eats him from within, makes it difficult to stomach the fatty cuts of raw meat he barters for, makes the sour scent of degradation boil hot in his gut. He presses long fingers against his son’s shoulder and indulges the story about the moon that boy was born beneath, so long ago now, so many, many breaths apart from the present; he loses himself for a moment, his eyes closed against the single thought that whirls in his mind, never-ceasing, never-dying - infinite and always and immortal:
It wasn’t supposed to happen again.
When he does manage to tune out the drone of that one terrible truth, it’s the sickening affirmation that this, all of this, is his own doing which replaces the buzzing trill, the knowledge of it thick like sludge, like the precious drops of life he’s managed to force, distilled and desperate from those broken bits of tech scavenged from the trash heaps - their mountains and valleys, here; dark like blood on his hands. This is his fault.
Mindlessly answering that yes, his son’s home planet is farther from its sun than they are here on Earth, he swallows hard; he isn’t sure which thought is worse.
________________________________________
Watching the man called Wikus is painful, he won’t deny it, and he knows that no matter what cruelties the Human casts his way, no matter what anger and aggression he will suffer at those hands, Christopher will not turn away. He remembers all too well what his own fingers - short and stubby, knuckled but nailless - did to the female who’d taken him in after his exposure, who’d pleaded with her caste to take him in, to bring him back to the homeworld and help him if they could; assimilate him if they could not. He’d thrashed and screamed as long as his human vocal chords had remained, had drawn blood from her more times than he cares now to recall, and it was only after his eyes had turned, his face was gone; it was only when the very last patch of human skin disappeared, when his heart changed and his lungs shifted and everything he knew was gone that he gave up, and her wounds were finally given the chance to heal.
Even in his darkest moments, his most violent rage, she never left him. She never gave up on him. He never learned her name, he reflects, but in the end it doesn’t matter, never mattered; because she’d loved him. She’d helped him through all of the trials, the tests that the experts subjected him to, assuring him anew each and every time that it wouldn’t come to naught, all this effort; that one day he would see his own human face in the mirror, his own cheeks, his own lips, the sparkling blue of his eyes. She’d slept with him when they both lost hope, when she had no more assurance to give, no more words of comfort, only her love, her passion. She’d laid his eggs. She’d died in the epidemic that had killed all but one of their progeny. She’d broken his heart without ever meaning to. She’d made the decision easy when they tell him they’ve found a way to reverse the process of conversion, that they can fix him.
Their offspring would never remember its mother. Christopher; he’s all their child has left.
It’s pity that drives the proposition - he knew that then, and he knows it now - but he’s offered his mate’s place on an exploratory mission aboard the same vessel that brought him to their world, his world, in the first place - the same vessel that landed in the secluded midwest and dropped a fuel canister that changed his life. And so he does what anyone would do - he gathers himself, his newborn son, and the best of his memories of her, and accepts.
He doesn’t even know the planet’s name - no one’s ever seen fit to tell him, and he’s never bothered to ask, or to look - but somehow, watching it’s green-gold glow disappear from the bulkheads, the tiny body of his little boy slung soft in the crook of his arm, it feels more like leaving home than anything he’s ever known.
The weight of the baby in his arms is awkward, this body unsuited for the angle, but some things are innate, unchangeable. Some things just are.
________________________________________
It’s seeing the body, his friend sliced open, a slab of meat dripping, empty, hollow on that table at the very center of everything he hates, everything he used to be; it’s the echo of it, the afterimage burned behind his eyes that makes everything perfectly clear.
A name cannot, can never make a man of a monster. These people, this planet - they prove that more than anything.
Christopher doesn’t belong here anymore.
________________________________________
When he gives Wikus three years, it’s an accurate estimate. In point of fact, it’s an optimistic one - they’d been traveling for seven years before they’d landed on Earth, and while they’d taken their time, explored a few smaller systems here and there, it had been a fairly direct route, all the same.
But he remembers what it feels like to lose all hope, and three years, however long they may be, are enough to keep a glimmer of it alive in the man; and a glimmer, well, that’s all anyone needs.
Three years. Christopher breathes slow, deep against the old Earth air swirling in the ship, his healing wounds stretching painfully as he takes it in. Three years.
It’s short enough to keep him looking to the sky for the shadow of return, for salvation to drop from the clouds and return his life to him, to push back the clock. It’s long enough, though, that Christopher knows that while those yellow eyes might skim the horizon at the end of each day, when those three years are up? It won’t matter if Christopher ever returns or not.
Because three years is long enough to understand that no one belongs to the human race forever. Long enough to know that no one should ever want to.
Wikus van de Merwe will be no different.